This was my souvenir from the husband’s dive trip. A lovely spiral brought up from the deep.

I’m kind of a cheap date.

Small furry rodents beware, the Million Dollar dog is ever vigilant.

Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett on the same day. The man I wanted to marry (when I was six) and the body I hoped to someday possess (before I knew the inconvenient truth of genetics). Who’d a thought?

He was my first crush. Nobody rocked a fringed vest and striped bell bottoms like Michael.

Poor soul never had a chance at a normal life. If ever there was an admonition against childhood stardom, he was it. I just saw a 2002 video on BET with his combed back jheri curl and sad little Planet of the Apes nose-less profile. Looked like Diana Ross starring in Victor/Victoria.

It’s so sad that he never loved his wide nose and big hair. Because we loved him just like he was when we first saw him, wide nose, big afro and all . Too bad he never really loved himself.

All we ever wanted was to see him dance and be happy.

R.I.P, Michael. R.I.P.

I can’t help it. All my artistic energy is being aimed at a commission project, so this site gets what I can spare. You are lucky I have a garden. Because last night the guys had to go do a father/son good deed that coincided with Monday Night Raw (not to be confused with Friday Night Smackdown, or Thursday Night Superstars of the WWE). Since I have it on good nine year old authority that I am the best Mom ever (well, I’m in the top five, at least), I took pictures of the television. so that I could answer questions like “What mask was Rey Mysterio wearing?” and “What did Jeff Hardy’s face paint look like?”

Instead, you get pictures of the garden, picked fresh this morning.

Look at the pink fuzz. It’s like Fraggle hair!

Droplets! And some kind of tiny green insect.

Can’t thank Jane enough for test driving and recommending the Olympus.

Lastly, the Sphinx dog is so happy with her new meditation wall.

If you are a dog owner (dog-owned is more likely the proper term) you can ascertain the meaning of your dog’s various barks.

For instance, there is the FedX bark, frenzied, but ultimately pointless. It’s sort of like running a marathon. Yeah, you feel great for a minute, like you really accomplished something, but then what?

There is the “I know that car!” scramble. Not a bark, since there is no alarm, just rushing to get to the back door and wag the tail vigorously in welcome, and hope for a Milk Bone.

There is the “wildlife” bark, which is a sort of doggie whisper, accompanied by jumping quietly at the door. Your aim is to let someone with opposable thumbs know that you desperately need to get out RIGHT NOW to chase a chipmunk (or a squirrel, or a fox, or a raccoon), but to actually bark would tip off the prey to your presence and ruin the element of surprise.

There is the “Hey! Someone’s here! Oh. Wait. It looks like you guys are expecting company. It’s probably all right. Just get the door and let me sniff them, would ya?”

And then there is the Def Con 5 “OH MY GOD! SOMEONE I HAVE NEVER SEEN BEFORE IS COMING UP THE WALK AND IT’S DARK!!! GET THE GUN! GET THE GUN! THEY MIGHT WANT THE MILK BONES!!! CALL 911!!!

That last one is the bark I heard at 2:30 Sunday morning. I leaped out of bed and was trying to decide if I needed pants or a weapon, or possibly both, when I realized that an intruder wouldn’t be pecking insistently on the glass beside the door.

Also, I figured the state police or the FBI wouldn’t peck on the window. They’d knock on the door with authority…so I didn’t put on pants.

Turned out the 2:30 a.m. intruder was the husband, who’s flight home from his dive trip was delayed by several hours. I knew he was delayed, so I’d given up and gone to bed around midnight. I staggered down the hall and opened the door. He’s standing on the front porch, lazily chewing gum, with his scuba gear slung over his shoulder, wearing a t- shirt from the resort, and looking all nonchalant like the guy from a 70’s Old Spice commercial. So like any woman who’s man has been away for a while, I flung myself lustily at him and said …”What the f***? Where are your keys? Dammit! The dogs were going ape shit. Since when do you use the front door? God! Now I’ll never get back to sleep!”

Remind me of this incident when he ditches me for a nicer woman and I have the nerve to claim I don’t know what drove him to it.

put up some pictures of flowers and go sit in the hammock with a drink until the mood passes.

Happy Solstice my friends…go out and watch the lightening bugs this evening.

That’s the sound of one completed construction project. It can easily be confused with garden variety quiet. As of one p.m. yesterday afternoon, I handed the stone masons a wad of cash and began once again living my life without an audience outside my back windows. You never realize just how sheer your bathroom curtains are until there are guys mixing mortar on the other side of them.

If you can’t find some place to either chill or amuse yourself in our back yard, then you really just aren’t trying.

Yesterday one of my friends and I took our two boys to Holiday World. If you live within a four hour drive of southern Indiana, you are no doubt familiar with this place. They advertise heavily and semi-professionally. If you want to see your kid experience nirvana, this is as close as you can get for a hundred bucks (basically, two admissions and a tank of gas). Amazing water slides, terrifying roller coasters and all the free soda you can drink? What’s not to love?

As an adult, it’s worth the price of admission just for the people watching. The place was a walking gallery of truly stunningly bad tattoos. I know tattoo artists have to start somewhere, like hairdressers, but at least if you let someone practice hairdressing skills, the humiliating results are only temporary. I am considering starting a public service campaign aimed at impressionable young people.

Think Before You Ink.

There was one guy in line ahead of us and after several minutes spent contemplating his right shoulder* we decided that he went to a tattoo parlor and said, “You know how sometimes you go out drinking, and you lose your glasses, and you wake up on someone’s sofa with their dog staring in your face, but because you lost your glasses, you can’t tell it’s a dog and you think it might be the Devil? And it really freaks you out for a minute? Can you put that on my shoulder?”

Or maybe it was a dragon, and you were supposed to view it with 3D glasses.

*craptastic blurry phone photo - in an effort to convey the full WTF quality of the tattoo. Seriously, do you have any idea what this is supposed to represent? Other than a warning to those contemplating body art?

How can you tell my husband is out of town? Perfectly good kale. IN THE TRASH!!!!

Yes, honey, the trash. Covered in dog hair! BWA HAH HA!

A word problem. If it’s 3:30 on Friday, and looks a bit cloudy, when is it reasonable to knock off work? TWO ROWS SHY OF FINISHED!!!!!!

Tools and rock fragments? Deal with it Monday.

Serenity now. Serenity Now! SERENITY NOW!

I was sitting on the patio with a friend last night, and she was replaying her most recent romantic drama for me. It occurred to me that if you substituted “locker” for “cell phone”, I could have had the exact same conversation in junior high. I let her vent for a while before I finally interrupted her to ask how this kind of treatment was preferable to being alone. For god’s sake, woman. If you are old enough for your doctor to be suggesting strategies for dealing with the onset of menopause, you are too old to be waiting around for some asshole to decide to quit chasing hoochies and realize that you are what he needs in a woman.

She said, “Well that’s easy for you to say. You’ve found your soul mate!” I had to tell her that she really needs to quit holding us up to that standard. We are not soul mates. We are two grown human beings who get up every morning and choose to ignore each others’ vast array of faults in favor of their better qualities. And hopefully more days than not, each of us will do one little thing that makes the other’s life more pleasant, instead of one little thing that makes the other bat shit crazy.

All that being said, if my husband’s chiro/yoga/accupuncture provider sells him one more powdered longevity elixir that I have to scrape off the counter with bleach and an industrial sander she is going to be responsible for his grisly death. Won’t that be ironic?